Scared (3 page)

Reginald came closer, and the cab swayed as he hoisted himself up onto the outside step, pressing his nose to the pane. The end of it looked like a circle, rain lashing around it, and Russell held back a laugh. If he let it out, Reginald would hold that against him too. Anything to get him into trouble. The door handle rattled, and Reginald drew his face back before opening the door.

Except it wasn't Reginald standing there on the step.

A man, wax jacket and trousers covering his large frame, and a waterproof fishing hat on his head, stared at Russell. Rain splashed off the hat's brim, bouncing onto Russell. Heart thumping harder, it took him a moment to get to grips with the fact a stranger occupied the step. Was this man visiting a grave, hoping for respite in the cab until the downpour ceased?

"Uh, who are you?” Russell asked, shifting over a little due to the rain coming in and wetting his jeans. A cold wind whipped inside, swirling around the cab and stealing all the warmth Russell had cultivated.

The man continued to stare, his black eyes narrowed, black eyebrows like furry slugs. A bushy beard grew around a mouth with fleshy lips and beneath a nose that looked like it had been punched a fair few times. In short, the man appeared a thug. Someone who had been in many a fight and was handy with his fists.

Shit.

"Look, mate. There isn't room for you in here. If you need to get out of the rain, you can go over there to the—"

"Get out.” The man's accent was pure London. He widened his eyes, and the furry slugs arched.

What the fuck? London?

"I can't leave the digger, mate,” Russell said.

"Get out. Now.” The man reached out a leather-gloved hand and gripped Russell's wrist.

"I can't. Honestly, I'll lose my job if I let you get in here.” Russell considered starting the engine and shoving the man off the step, but the digger moved so bloody slowly this bloke would catch up with him if that was his intention.

"You won't be needing your job where you're going. Now get out."

Yanked hard, Russell jerked forward. The man's words only just registering, Russell pulled back and reached for his rucksack. His phone was in there. Sliding his finger through the top loop, he lifted the bag just before the man tugged harder.

"All right, all right! I'm getting out."

The man let him go, and Russell climbed out, cursing himself for the missed opportunity of kicking him in the chest, given his higher vantage point while sitting in the cab. Too late now. Rain smacked into him, needle-like and vicious, and his cheeks stung already from the assault. He gripped his backpack tightly—as tight as the man's hold on his upper arm—and stumbled along by his side toward the far corner of the cemetery. A gate there led into a small housing estate via a long, winding, tree-lined path. They would vanish among the buildings in no time, and seeing as the sky was so dark and the rain would have kept people inside, Russell had no doubt his entry into the estate would go virtually unseen.

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Toby was bored shitless. He hated his job, hated this bloody town, and hated the men who had forced them up here. Never thought he'd miss the south, but there you have it. Everyone sounded so alien; no trace of the London brogue around this neck of the woods. Unless you counted his and Russell's.

Stabbing at the teabag floating in one of the many cuppas he was making, Toby sighed. Fuck, if he'd known he'd be chief teaboy when he took this job...

But at least it's a job.

God, he annoyed himself by saying that all the damn time. He said it to Russell, too, more to assure him that everything was fine, even when it wasn't. He hated worrying him. Still, they were alive. Safe. That counted for a hell of a lot, didn't it? If they'd have stayed at home, God only knew what would have happened. Wouldn't have been long before those men found them.

He never regretted helping that kid get away from those men, though. They'd looked intent on doing him some serious harm, roughing him up like that. It was on the news all the time, wasn't it, kids going missing, kids finding themselves in a bit of bother, and
that
kid had looked scared shitless as Toby approached. Stared at him with the kind of fear in his eyes no kid should have.

They'd told the kid to fuck off out of it, get going, and Toby had gone home, content he'd helped the boy out. Until the men collared him at his flat door, shoving him inside. They'd given him a pasting, telling him he'd never get the chance to poke his nose into someone's business again, and mentioned his girlfriend—that was a laugh, that was—pointing to Sasha's handbag hanging on the door handle. He hadn't put them straight that she wasn't his bird. He reckoned they'd have beat the shit out of him there and then if they knew he was gay.

They left Sasha a note written on the bathroom mirror—in blood. The blood from where they'd punched him in the face and made his nose bleed. Then they took him to this massive house in the middle of nowhere, down in a dank basement at the end of a long corridor. He'd been given a glass of lemonade, or so he thought, was urged to drink it, and then they jabbed a needle in his arm. His brain had fucked off a little while after that, short-circuiting and refusing to play ball. The men questioned him—what have you seen, what did you hear, what the fuck did you think you were playing at, you fucking ponce?—and Toby had been hard pressed to answer. His tongue hadn't worked, and the words he wanted to say backed up inside his empty head like a trapped crowd pressing against a door.

I didn't see anything except you lot getting in some kid's face.

I didn't hear anything except you telling him he should go with you if he knew what was good for him. You said something about Sasha, but fucked if I can remember now.

I'd been playing at being a fucking hero. Doing the right thing.

Fists had rained down on him, and the skin split above his eyebrow. Mustn't forget the burning pain on his palm and the feeling of something sharp scraping beneath his fingernails. Or someone biting him—hard. Toby had blacked out, waking to find he couldn't breathe. He'd opened his mouth to suck in air, and mud filled it. Damp. Disgusting. And what the hell was so heavy on top of him? He knew now it was the same mud he'd tasted, but back then his head had been so fuzzy he couldn't tie it all together. He'd shook his head, some of the mud slipping away, lifted a hand—that had been a fucking struggle and all—and reached out. Something heavier than the mud had thumped down on his shins, and he waved his arm as a spear of pain shot up his legs.

"Fuck! Oh, shit!” someone said, frantic and out of breath.

The extra weight lifted, and Toby sat up, gasping in a deep breath, looking up at a man standing at the bottom of what looked like a grave.

Russell. The poor bastard had appeared scared to death, and the sight of another frightened human being made Toby smile.

"Shit. I bet I look shocking, don't I?” Toby said. And wasn't that such a
normal
thing to say considering the circumstances.

"What the...? How? Wh...?” Russell shook his head and held out an arm for Toby to grasp his hand.

"How did I get here? Fuck knows, though I have a good idea.” Toby frowned and took Russell's hand, hauling himself upright. Staggering to the side, he put his hand to his temple and winced. “Jesus, that hurts.” He blinked. “Anyone out there?” he whispered, his free hand gripping the grave edge. “You know, like two hefty blokes?"

Russell swallowed. “They were, when they...when you... Hang on.” He reached up and patted the ground. Fingers meeting with the ladder, he brought it between them and leaned it against the side. “Let me just check.” He climbed up three steps and peered out. “No. Can't see anyone."

"Good. Then let's get the fuck out of here. I feel like shit."

Russell glanced down at him. “You look like shit too. Those men. Give you a good going over, did they?"

He nodded. “Yeah. You could say that."

Out of the hole, Russell studied the cemetery. “Need a hand?” he asked, holding one out.

Halfway up the ladder, Toby nodded. Russell helped him up then lifted the ladder and turned it on its side, holding it beneath his arm. Bending down, he picked up the torch and switched it off.

"D'you, uh...d'you have somewhere to go?” Russell had kicked at the pile of mud beside the grave. “I mean, you gonna be all right?"

"Um, difficult one, that. I could go home, but they know where I live, so uh... Might be best I get off...somewhere. Don't want you getting into any shit because of me.” He'd glanced around. “Well, thanks for, you know, helping me out, but uh... Yeah. Thanks."

Toby smiled now at the recollection and dumped the squeezed teabags in the bin. He added milk and sugar to the cups, making sure to stick to the list of who took what and which cup belonged to whom. It wouldn't do to get the cups mixed up. He'd done it before and got a right bollocking from that bitch Martha Lewis, who stood guard over the photocopier as though her life depended on it.

Placing the cups on a tray, Toby carried it out of the small kitchen off the main office and walked around to each desk, depositing cups as he went. No one thanked him. Most never acknowledged he was even there, and not for the first time he considered either pouring the hot liquid over everyone's heads or walking out.

Neither was an option.

Back in the kitchen, he filled the kettle again to make his own drink. He did this from experience. If he made his at the same time as everyone else's, by the time he got back to his it was going cold. Besides, he preferred hot chocolate, and no one liked a skin forming on the top. No one he knew anyway.

His mind wandered again. Back then, he hadn't told Russell everything right away. After they'd climbed out of that grave, Russell had taken him to a little shed thing on site and given him tea. Toby had offered the barest of details, omitting the fact those men had taken him to that big house. That came out later when they'd been interviewed by the police. And poor Sasha. Wrong place at the wrong time. Those bastards had come back after dumping him in that grave and killed her. What the fuck for he had no idea. Maybe to make it look like he'd killed her then legged it?

Except it hadn't quite worked out, if that had been their plan. Toby remained alive and well, albeit with serious mental scars and nightmares filled with being inside a grave full of mud, unable to get out.

There was an upside to this whole sorry mess, though. Russell.

Toby hadn't really been in a serious relationship—not one like his with Russell anyway. This past year or so proved a test for both of them, living together and sharing their new space when Russell was used to being alone and Toby had shacked up with a female flatmate. And they were still feeling their way, getting to know one another a little more every day. Toby was surprised they'd lasted this long, actually. Most people, even those in previously solid relationships, would have crumbled under the pressure of having dodgy blokes looking for them day in, day out. Toby was under no illusions about that, either. They were being hunted all right. No way blokes who were into torture would sit back and let two men go—men who had blabbed to the coppers, their faces splashed all over the sodding newspapers.

Mind you, if a year had passed, it could be said they'd been forgotten about. They might be safe now.

My skinny arse.

Toby sipped his hot chocolate and leaned against the countertop edge. He'd spend his tea break in here, away from those arseholes, who treated him like a skivvy. They'd guessed he was gay, too, right from the start, and he didn't care
what
they said to the contrary, it
did
bother them.

"Well, fuck them,” he muttered. “It's not like I've gone round copping a feel of their arses and cornering them for a kiss, is it?"

You'd think he had, judging by the looks the men gave him. And the women weren't much better. Russell had no idea Toby put up with this every day. Toby almost envied Russell his creepy career choice. He got to work alone with only the dead for company. And that Reginald—what a complete wanker. Toby met him once when he had a day off and had dropped Russell at the graveyard gates to save him going by bike. They only had the one car between them, and Jacob & Sons was further away from home than Wraxford Cemetery. Reginald had eyed Toby up and down like he was shit on his shoe. Toby thought at the time that if he
had
shit on
his
shoe right then, he'd have gladly wiped it on Reginald's pristine black trousers.
Trousers
, when you worked in a graveyard?

The bloke walked off after opening the gates, looking as though he had a broom handle stuck up his arse, and Toby had questioned Russell as to why the guy wore trousers instead of jeans.

"'Cos he don't do any work where he gets dirty, that's why."

Toby grimaced now, blowing his hot chocolate and taking a creamy sip. He wished the past would just fuck off and leave him alone.

"Toby!” Martha shouted from the office. “Boss wants you to post some letters."

I wish he'd fuck off and leave me alone and all.

"Be with him in a minute. Just finishing my drink,” he called.

"Uh, now, Toby. Five minutes ago, like."

He had nothing against the Newcastle accent, but the tone of Martha's voice got right on his nerves. Pouring the remainder of his drink down the plughole then swilling out the cup, Toby left the kitchen and walked toward the boss’ office.

"Uh, Toby. Boss left the letters at reception."

Reception? Unusual.

Mind you, Mr Jacob was getting old, and quirks due to his age had begun to show. Once, he'd sworn blind he'd asked Toby to get a file out when he hadn't. No amount of telling Mr. Jacob that he hadn't had worked. To appease the old bastard, Toby had admitted he'd forgotten and got on with the task.

Toby walked out of an office abuzz with keyboards tapping and phones ringing, via the double glass doors. The reception area, all cream carpet and walls adorned with modern art that looked like a kid had painted them, held a massive semi-circular desk. Miss Prissy Pants Extraordinaire sat behind it. She acted like her shit didn't stink and was a rung above Martha on the ladder of people Toby wished he didn't have to work with.